Hey all you wierdos, freaks and lurkers - Fingers back to take you on a trip so put the kickstand down grab a beer and roll a joint.
So were did it begin for me? Easyrider, Wood Stock, the moon? Name a better year than 1969. 1969 sticks in my mind like a fly hitting you in the face at 60.
In '69 i was an innocent 10 year old redhead, freckled kid. The son of a musician - my ol' man played drums. Mom just looked good - she didn't need to work.
I have a younger sister - she's like 7 in '69 - and like most kids we needed to be entertained. The Buffalo Zoo is were my parents' decide to take us this particular day. The zoo is kool when you're 10 years old. We barely get in the parking lot and Mom wants to go home becus of all the "stop touching me dad" me and my sister were doing .
My ol' man was quite the dresser back in the day. Bermuda shorts, Chuck Taylors and a stripped shirt was his gig. Mom dressed to the 9's- always. She always thought she was Buffalo's Jackie O.
So we park the Rambler, pile out and beat feet to the entrance. We get close and holy fuckin' shit there they are - the most bitchin wildest crasy motorcycles I had ever seen. I didn't know what a chopper was. All I knew was that the chrome was so shinny the sun beating off of them was blinding me as I stared at them. They all had wild metalic paint and front ends that went on what seemed forever. My ol' man grabs me and drags me toward the gate saying that these dream machines belong to "bad people." I didn't care. I could've stared at them all day.
We're barely in the gate when I see them - the men who's choppers i was droolling over hanging out around a fountain with their chicks. All of them staring and laughing at us squares. Up to this point in my life I had never seen anything like them. SWASTICAS, GREASY, DIRTY LONG HAIR, vests made from cut off Levis jackets with patches sewn all over them. Even though my ol' man is dragging me away I'm staring like a deer in headlights. Their chicks were like no women I had seen either - long hair, tits all perky and high-heel boots. One of the last things I saw as my Dad carried me off was the HELLS ANGELS back patch. That image - burned into my young brain for a lifetime - I can still see as clearly as if it was yesterday.
As it turns out, I learned later that they were in buffalo to give them their Charter. The Buffalo club was a club called the Road Vultures.
I went home with a new image of life. Not long after that I chopped my huffy, rode around the neighborhood and dreamed of being one of those men I saw that day.
"WE BLEW IT BILLY." Think about that - we did. True brotherhood is dead. The American dream is a skeleton. Drugs killed true brotherhood .
Rubber burning, gear banging, wheelie king